


Home is Not a Place

by sksNinja



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fic Exchange, First Meetings, Fluff, Forgotten Deity Hanzo, I made the shopkeep an OC cause I wanted him to be an asshole, M/M, Target Practice Secret Santa 2019, like 3 seconds of angst, mostly made up mythology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-18 16:21:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21930313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sksNinja/pseuds/sksNinja
Summary: Time has been long, and there is much Hanzo does not remember. Seemingly destined to fade away, a desperate decision and a complete stranger might change that.
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Comments: 12
Kudos: 131





	Home is Not a Place

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hunahuna_un](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunahuna_un/gifts).



> Written for the 2019 Target Practice Discord Secret Santa exchange <3
> 
> This was an absolute delight to write, hope you enjoy!

Hanzo flinched as the lights snapped on, blinking against the influx of sensations. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed the heels of his palms to his forehead, rubbing circles in an effort to gain some clarity. He twisted the long strands of his hair over his shoulders. It was getting to be a mess, but there really wasn’t anything he could do about it. 

Sleeping was a risk. He slept most nights, but it still made him anxious. Falling asleep was easy, that simple slip into the silent dark. The fear came over how it wouldn’t take much to slide into the long slumber, that final rest that called to him after long days in the quiet hours of the night. He had not always been alone here, there had been others with which to dampen the passage of time but... he tried not to dwell on it. 

He folded his arms and held himself in place as he looked down at… not his shrine. He had not been at the shrine for… some time. It was a struggle to recall what had happened back then. There was a storm. A fight. The shrine fell. He was taken. No… they? They were taken? Or did the shrine fall after? Surely he would know if his altar still stood. No, there was nothing to go back to. At the very least he could feel _that_.

He focused his gaze at the token of his power. At the black sheath holding tight to the blade inside. At the dark blue wrap of the hilt that had not felt the touch of an uncovered hand in centuries. At the dual magatama set into the guard… he could not recall the last time they had shone. 

If Hanzo concentrated, he could feel the texture of the robes he wore. Course. Fraying. Worn. Just like the katana that lay below him. He dropped the edges of the fabric in distaste, gathering what power he had back around himself. 

Trapped alone under a box of glass. Held under false sunlight for mere hours a day. The distaste had long ago faded into acceptance. He could no longer feel heat nor chill, but the imagined warmth of distant sunbeams filled him with longing. What he wouldn’t give to feel the comfort of that warmth upon him just one more time. He gazed forlornly at the distant windows, motes of dust floating through the air. 

He ignored the grumbling tenant as he flipped the sign on the door, scratching himself rudely. A useless mortal, unappreciative of the treasures he held in his possession.

And while Hanzo did still feel that small glow of strength from the occasional admirer, that touch of power, those moments were steadily growing fewer and farther apart. It had taken a careful rationing of his strength to make it this far. He refused to let it all end here.

The bell above the door chimed as it swung wide. The shop had only just opened, it could only be-

“Gooooood Morning Karl! How are you on this bright and sunny day?” The cowboy swaggered up to the front counter, leaning on the edge with a sly grin.

The owner was unimpressed. “God-damn it McCree, it’s too early for your shit.”  
  
“Why I’m doing just fine! Thank ya ever so much for asking.”

Hanzo watched lazily as the shopkeep bickered with the cowboy that occasionally visited the store. The man was the embodiment of western... style. From his hat to his boots, to the heavy woven shawl he wrapped around his shoulders. Hanzo liked to imagine the man smelled of dust and woodsmoke, leather and earth.

Sometimes the man would spend hours perusing the shelves, other times he would simply show up, harass the owner and leave. If he made a purchase it was always after a great deal of consideration, sometimes over the course of several days. Once after nearly a month. And always, ALWAYS, it would be of an artifact of true power; a turquoise bracelet with the power to heal, a battered horseshoe that reliably held luck. Once he bought an oil lamp so heavily cursed, Hanzo was surprised to see him healthy and hale at his next visit.

Hanzo occasionally wondered if the man’s cheeriness was false. He always seemed to have a smile, a sharp comment, a… warmth to his very being.

The men’s conversation brought them past Hanzo’s sword case and he found himself tempted to see if he could feel it. Just brush his palm along the man’s arm or shoulder, see if could catch an inkling of that warmth for himself. 

Hanzo started to reach out, then stopped himself. What was he thinking? What was he doing? He needed to save his strength for… for what? Just what would he hope to gain? Freedom? Praise? So what if he held onto a little more energy for another day? What would that get him? More time to fade into nothing? A slower death? What meaning was there to be held in anything anymore?

The men were nearly past him. It was with a burst of near panic that Hanzo stretched out to tap the cowboy’s shoulder blade as he passed, nearly missing him entirely.

Hanzo drew back just as quickly, the connection had felt like… he struggled to put it into words. Like the color of flame, or the sound of the wind. It wasn’t what he had expected, but he was right in that it had been _warm_ . Hanzo returned to hover over the case of his blade, rubbing his palm as if it had been burned, the fingers tingling faintly. He had not laid touch on a mortal in some time, but could not recall any of them ever feeling like… _that_.

“McCree?” The shopkeep had continued walking forward, and only just noticed the cowboy had stopped.

The cowboy in question turned back slowly, expression serious. His eyes scanned the area behind him, as if looking for something. Hanzo held a breath he did not need as his gaze swept over Hanzo’s form without reaction.

“I uh… sorry Karl. Just thought I felt…” he blinked. His eyes refocused. “Ah nevermind.” He took off his hat, running a hand through his hair before returning it to his head. “So anyways, what’s the story with the katana there?”

“Aw hell McCree, don’t get me started on that creepy piece of a shit,” the man’s face wrinkled into a sneer. The cowboy just stared expectantly, so the owner continued. “Picked the thing up off of some monk overseas. Made it seem all important. Then practically gave it to me when I mentioned I was headed back to the Americas. Apparently the thing’s part of a pair. Said some bullshit about it needing to be apart from its brother ‘in order to heal,’” the man held up mocking air quotes. “Whatever the hell _that’s_ supposed to mean. I just thought I was getting a steal. Turns out it ain’t worth shit. Ain’t no-one’s been interested in that thing since I got it.”

“What’s with the display case then?” The pair now stood directly in front of Hanzo’s sword. Hanzo breathed in the gradual glow of admiration from the cowboy. Steadily gaining back what he had lost by making the touch. Even through the dull burn of the owner’s slander. 

The owner seemed to hesitate, fidgeting in place, no longer looking directly at the sword. He mumbled something out of the corner of his mouth.

“What was that?” the cowboy asked.

“I said the damned thing’s cursed alright!?” The man took a few steps back. Not that Hanzo had plans to do anything in response to his accusation. Not this time.

The man seemed to gain more confidence after a few moments. “When I first bought that thing I tried displaying it with some of the other swords I got. No sooner than I’d turn around and every single sword on the rack would be knocked on the ground.” He pointed meaningfully. “Save for that one.” He shook his head. “Freaky as all hell. I once tried to hide it in storage till I could decide what to do with it, and the damned box nearly caught fire! The water damage from the sprinklers alone cost me more than I paid for the damn thing in the first place!” 

Hanzo stood with the cowboy in between him and the owner, doing his best to ignore the man’s tirade. He still felt justified. The owner continued, “Figured if I can’t keep it by anything, and I can’t hide it away, I may as well make it look like it’s worth something. Haven’t had much trouble since I put it behind glass.” The man stared in thought for a few seconds more. “What’d you care anyways? This thing’s hardly your style.”

The cowboy waved him off with a smug smile. “Oh don’t mind me, just passing curiosity.” He gave the man a nod of his chin. “You can head back up front if you like. I feel like browsing today.”

The cowboy waited as the man made his way back to the front of the store, grumbling under his breath all the while. Then he turned back to the sword, eyes scanning closely over the sheath, the hilt, the guard; clearly looking for something.

Hanzo fidgeted in place, feeling something akin to embarrassment at the scrutinization. Should he touch him again? No, the last time was too… instead, after a moment’s hesitation, he moved to gently place his hand over the glass case, focusing, allowing a small gleam of light to shine down the length of his sheath.

“There!” The cowboy breathed. “I knew I felt something! Oh but you ain’t no curse at all are ya?” he shook his head slightly, eyes never straying. “You ain’t a misguided blessing though either.” He continued his search, slowly circling the display case. Hanzo shifted up and out of the way, feeling unsure of what he wanted him to find.

The cowboy glanced back up front. Hanzo felt the disconnect of his stare like stepping under the shadow of a tree. The owner sat behind the front counter, seemingly distracted by his phone, and Hanzo felt an even greater shiver as the cowboy’s gaze returned. His hat sitting low over his brow, his left eye closed, his right… Hanzo drew back at the (red red _red_ ) scrutiny turned at him, _d_ _irectly_ at him. His mouth falling open before the cowboy’s gaze unfocused and he took in a shuddering breath.

“I- I’m sorry. That was rude.” He whispered, almost panting. “I didn’t get a real good look at you but… but I had to check ya know?” He took off his hat, holding it over his chest as he casually returned his gaze down to Hanzo’s sword, smiling softly. “I don’t rightly know how you got here, but… you’re a goddamn lost deity aren’t ya?”

Hanzo had been _seen_. He could still feel the tingle on his skin. Not quite sunlight, but maybe something like starlight under a clear sky, cool and bright, deep and vast. 

“And awake,” the cowboy continued. “Ain’t seen one like you so lively in all my-” he trailed off. Hanzo moved to hold himself just behind his sword, in line with the cowboy’s gaze, pretending he could still hold the man’s eyes.

“Not quite what I’m used to to be honest. Might have to pull some strings on this one.” He returned the hat to his head, and pulled out his phone to snap a few pictures. “I hate to run off right away, and telling you to hold tight probably ain’t what you wanna hear,” he gave a sad sort of laugh. “Lord knows how long you’ve been tied up under hard-asses like Karl,” he pocketed his phone, looking back up. “But I promise you, I’ll do everything in my power to help you find where you belong.” With a smile and a nod he turned to leave.

Before he could think better of it, Hanzo darted forward and grabbed the edge of the cowboys sleeve, just above the man’s elbow. Hanzo was momentarily distracted by the pinch of fabric between his fingers, crisp but soft. The man himself had frozen, was purposefully holding himself still, hardly even breathing. 

Hanzo gathered his courage, breathed in peace, and projected the words as hard as he dared… _’thank you.’_

This time the man’s smile _was_ sunlight, soft and warm and better than a waking breath of air after a comfortable nap.

“Anytime, partner.”

\---

From then on, the cowboy came to visit every few days. The morning after that first visit Hanzo had twisted in despair for fear that the previous day’s encounter was nothing more than a wishful dream. It was only by looking into himself, and feeling that small warmth of strength that we was able to convince himself otherwise. 

He came to know the man as Jesse McCree (“You can call me what you like, but most people just holler ‘McCree’”), a collector and purveyor of unusual artifacts. Sometimes he had leads to share. A rumor he’d heard, a story he’d read. Sometimes he just stopped in to let Hanzo know he hadn’t given up. Hanzo shared his words sparingly, not trusting the man’s interest to hold. But the day he shared _his_ name (“Hanzo… you may call me Hanzo”) the warmth of awe he felt from the man made him wonder if he could believe in his resolve. 

He learned McCree had first spotted him with an ability known as “Deadeye,” that it allowed him to see past the world of mortals for a few seconds at a time, giving him more than an edge in his occupation. It was not without cost however. The ability clearly wore on the man. Any time he would use it to check up on Hanzo, he would be left shaky and out of breath for several minutes afterwards. 

Instead, Hanzo started to use _his_ energy to interact with McCree. Gradual at first, a brush of a shoulder here, the glance of a smile there, but the warm praise he felt unfurled, more than made up for the energy spent. With time and concentration, Hanzo was able to show himself more and more often through word and touch and sight.

Hanzo took to napping on the days McCree didn’t visit to save energy for when he could. The cowboy had become such an integral part of his life, he didn’t want to miss a minute. Once, late in the afternoon, he woke to a steady buzz of heat across his body. McCree had been running late, and came to find a sleeping Hanzo curled up in the air, his long hair spilt out as if it were underwater, mumbling softly. Hanzo had brushed off the embarrassment as best he could, but McCree seemed to have found it endearing.

It wasn’t until after he’d left that night, that Hanzo realized McCree hadn’t used his Deadeye to find him. That Hanzo had somehow sensed him in his sleep and unconsciously touched his power to reveal himself to McCree. He hadn’t thought about it, it had felt natural, like it meant… something. His heart filled with barely remembered hope.

It didn’t take long for the shopkeep to see McCree’s interest in Hanzo’s artifact. Teasing at first, then confused, then quiet. He once approached Hanzo after closing one night, peering through the glass suspiciously. Hanzo almost felt an inkling of what might be respect, before the man scoffed and turned away. The energy spent causing the man to stumble as he left was worthwhile. 

McCree’s most notable visit came some weeks later, entering the store with a solemn air about him. He stepped up to the counter.

“I’d like to look at the sword,” he said.  
  
“Go ahead,” Karl kicked back at his seat behind the counter. “All you’ve done lately is look at the damn thing.” He frowned and picked at a hangnail.

McCree took in and released a breath. Then he pulled a pair of white cotton gloves out of his pocket. “I'd like to look it beneath the glass.”

 _That_ got Karl’s attention. McCree only handled those antiques he was serious about purchasing. 

The owner stared at him, standing slowly, one hand digging through a drawer for the key to the case. “I did quote you a price now didn’t I?”

“Sure did,” McCree nodded quietly. Not commenting on how the owner had clearly been joking at the time. He caught Hanzo’s stare across the shop, “been working up to it.” 

Hanzo’s mouth fell open as the pair approached. He hadn’t even considered- his thoughts came to a halt as the lock to his case clicked open. He could _feel_ the difference of the air against his sheath. He watched with restrained frustration at the clean gloves McCree slipped on. While respectful, he wished for nothing more than to feel the man’s skin against himself.

McCree’s hands shook slightly, seeming to sense the intensity of Hanzo’s emotions, if not their actual cause. Hanzo closed his eyes and strove to calm himself. He moved to float just behind McCree, placing his hands on the man’s shoulder blades and held them there. He pressed his forehead against his spine. It was warm, living breathing flesh beneath him. _‘Please_ ,’ Hanzo breathed. Not caring if he heard the desperation in his tone.

McCree steadied himself as he picked up the katana, and Hanzo could feel a steady hum run in whorls under his skin. He had to concentrate not to twist his hands in the back of McCree’s shirt. 

The shopkeep looked on expectantly, so McCree began to speak.

“It’s taken me outta my comfort zone something fierce, but based on the shape and material it’s 15th or 16th century.” He turned it over in his hands, relaxing as he focused on what was in front of him. Hanzo shifted to hover more to his side, keeping a hand on him, but looking over his shoulder. “There’s not much for obvious markings save for the magatama in the hilt.”

“The what now?” Karl asked.

“Magatama,” he repeated. “The little comma shaped stones here.” He brushed a finger against the smooth curve. A whine slipped from Hanzo’s mouth before he was able to cut it off.

McCree swallowed thickly before continuing. “Historians think the shape’s based off a fang or claw, or even the curve of the moon. Others say it’s the ‘shape of the soul’ like you’ll see in yin and yang.” He gazed down reverently and Hanzo felt fit to burst. “Most commonly they’ll be made of jade, but these are too blue. I’m thinking they might be howlite. Which wouldn’t make sense regionally, but it’s got that striation.” McCree moved a hand to grasp the hilt.

“Don’t bother,” Karl began. “It’s been stuck shut since-” the blade slide smoothly from it’s sheath with hardly a sound. The owner’s mouth snapped shut.

McCree didn’t seem to be listening anyway, his eyes ran the length of the blade, admiring the curves of the temper line. They snapped to the symbol molded into the collar of the blade, just before the hilt. Two dragons, their maws open wide, each chasing the tail of the other.

“Shimada…” he whispered. Hanzo drew back, his breath quickened as streams of memories flashed through him; the threads of his past blurring together. His birthright, the ritual, the storm, _his brother_. In a matter of seconds, Hanzo relieved the sum of his greatest accomplishments, and greatest failures. 

So consumed by the onslaught of revelations, he missed the rest of McCree’s explanation. Only coming back to himself as he felt the blade re-sheathed and carefully returned to its stand. Hanzo felt the disconnect of his touch like the loss of a limb.

Hanzo forced himself back to the present as McCree waved the owner off to help another customer, tucking the gloves in his pocket, and wiping the sweat off his palms. It was only as McCree looked down at him in concern, that Hanzo realized he lay kneeling on the ground. Through the confusing haze of emotions, Hanzo relished the feeling of solid ground beneath himself. He pushed himself to his feet, truly standing for the first time in centuries. He found himself surprised he had to look _up_ to look at the man.

“You alright?” McCree asked quietly. “You went pretty, uh… something for a bit there.” He reached to grasp one of Hanzo’s hands. It seemed even more steady than before. He was grateful for his grounding presence. 

“Yes, I… there has been much I’ve forgotten, and I didn’t realize- I still do not…” he shook his head, the words leaving him.

“Yeah I can imagine. The Shimada’s are more myth than legend, and a pretty heavy one at that. Sure would explain a few things though.” McCree seemed to lose some of his resolve. “I’m sorry ‘bout not asking you first about taking you home by the way. I’m not looking to own you or nothing-”

“McCree-san…”

“And I mean it wouldn’t be forever!”

“McCree.”

“But my place ain’t that bad and I got a few good contacts that might know-”

“ _Jesse_ ,” McCree’s rambling cut short as Hanzo grasped the man’s other hand, holding them both in front of himself. Warmth filled his being, an exasperated smile creeping across his face. “I would very much like to go home with you.”

“Oh! Uh,” McCree flustered. “Good! That’s uh, good!” He seemed as if he might be embarrassed to be holding hands with what would appear to be thin air, but he made no move to let go, further tightening his grip instead. “I still got some saving up to do, but-”  
  
“You know he is asking more than what he paid for me,” Hanzo interrupted, brow furrowed. 

McCree laughed dryly, cupping Hanzo’s face with a hand, his thumb rubbing distractedly against his cheek. “Oh I don’t doubt it darlin’, but I ain’t about to ask for a cent less than what you’re worth.”

There was nothing Hanzo could say to that. 

\---

That was until a few weeks later, when McCree had scraped up the money, only to find the price had been mysteriously raised.

Karl claimed he’d only given him a quote, not the actual price. And since McCree had so graciously appraised the sword, drawing attention to it's value, it was only _fair_ that he asked more for it.

The subsequent argument rattled the glass on the shelves. McCree was infuriated, looking mere seconds from throwing something, and was only just able to restrain himself by leaving. 

Hanzo had no such qualms about the destruction of personal property.

His powers had grown over the last few months, allowing his reach to extend through almost the entire store. He started small; knocking over glasses, pushing chairs. Before moving to more drastic measures; cracking glass, whispering nightmares into dreams. 

It came to a head two weeks after that first argument. Hanzo had suppressed the lights after the store had closed, drawing the shopkeep to notice the eerie glow emanating from his sword. With a low hum of pressure, he forced the word ‘unworthy’ to echo through the air. As the man turned to flee, through his recently-locked front door, he allowed him to witness Hanzo’s displeased glare in the door’s window, Hanzo’s features twisted darkly. 

Karl crashed through several artifacts as he fled through the previously blocked side door. He contacted McCree the very next morning.

It was after the sale had been made, at only slightly more than his original purchase, and they were wrapping up the sword for transport, that Hanzo had the realization.

He was leaving. He was really leaving. The years spent here had been short compared to the breadth of his existence, but what they meant, what they stood for, had come make up much of who he was now. 

His heart swelled at the realization of his freedom. Not just from this place, but from the imagined purpose he had assumed for himself.

He was going home.

As he and McCree strode to the front door together, Hanzo stepped up to wrap his arms around the man who had effectively become his savior. He held him as they paused in the threshold, the door half open, the breeze soft in his hair.

“Thank you,” he whispered, feeling as though he was being stretched beyond himself. McCree just smiled. Hanzo was going home, and home wasn’t a place, it was-

\---

The drive back home was quiet. Hanzo had faded out of view as they had stepped out into the sunlight, but Jesse figured it had been some time and the feeling had no doubt had been too much.

It wasn’t until he got home and brought the sword inside, that he began to worry.

It wasn’t until he placed the blade on the stand he had made for him, that he began to realize.

It wasn’t until he strained himself with deadeye and found _nothing_ , that he began to mourn.

It was … this was good. Hanzo had been steadily growing stronger, more powerful and beautiful as time went on. He had sensed several changes in the man since he’d met him. From the first time he’d laid eyes his blade, to the rediscovery of Hanzo’s surname.

Yeah, this was good. This was his job. The recovery and regulation of powerful artifacts. Sure his knack was more suited toward western artifacts, and he was more used to cursed and harmful spirits, but this had been an exception. It had been an exception in a lot of ways. 

Hanzo was free now. To the afterlife, or the astral plane, or wherever it was beings like him went when their time came. It was good. This was good.

That didn’t stop McCree from sinking to his knees in front of the altar of Hanzo’s katana, or stop the tears that swelled from his eyes as he clasped his fists together on the ground, pressing his forehead against them, praying to whomever might be listening for Hanzo to at least be happy.

There was a blow like a crack of thunder, like a sharp cut, an almost painful sting. McCree nearly jumped to his feet, but fell back to his knees, wincing at the _light_ and _heat_ and _sound_ that filled the room. He held his hands up in front of his face, blinking against the afterimages running across his vision. The deep smells of ozone and flower blossoms filled the air.

“W-wha-?” McCree stuttered. Then held his breath at the touch of hands against his own. At the touch of _familiar_ hands.

He looked up into the beaming face of Hanzo Shimada, leaning close over him. His long hair tied up in ornate fashion, his many layered kimono nearly shining in it’s brilliance. But more than that, more than the man’s otherworldly beauty, was the substance of his touch, the physicality of it.

McCree stood shakily as he reached to cup a hand to Hanzo’s cheek, and the man leaned into it with a sigh. A ... real sigh? An actual breath!? McCree slid his palm down the side of Hanzo’s neck. Searching, feeling … there! A pulse point! A heartbeat! Hanzo was not just here, he was _here_.

“H-How?” 

Hanzo couldn't restrain the smile blooming across his face, “A very long time ago, I was once human,” he began. “I accomplished a great many deeds, ascended, and saw myself above all those around me. In my arrogance, I made a most regrettable mistake and came to lose myself, trapped in a prison of my own making, stuck in a loop of the past.” He reached to hold a hand to McCree’s face in turn. “You helped me to see past that.”

“But, you’re here? Really here!?” tears still shone in McCree’s eyes, but they were no longer in sorrow.

“I was given a choice. I chose to go home.”

McCree furrowed his brow, “Home? But this is-”

Hanzo leaned that last bit forward, silencing him with a soft press of lips. “Home is not a place. To be here, with you? To me, that is home.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to extend special thanks to those friends who aren’t really in the same fandom as you, but are still willing to proofread your gay-ass fantasy fanfics. You know who are, and you’re the best. Thank you <3


End file.
